Echoes in Empty Rooms

Sound lives longest where no one listens— the way a laugh ricochets off bare walls, how footsteps linger in the corners long after the walker has dissolved.

A room remembers every whisper, collects them like dust on the sill, each word a ghost that cannot leave, each silence heavier than the last.

The walls know our secrets better than we know them ourselves, holding them close in the dark, whispering them back only when we're not there to hear.